


While You Were Out

by x_los



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who: The Curse of Fatal Death
Genre: F/M, Improvised Sex Toys, M/M, Paradox, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Queer Character, Queer Het, Sex Toys, Temperature Play, Temporal Paradox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 03:42:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19967476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: Courtesy of a temporal paradox, the Master discovers just how well he gets on with the Doctor's first female incarnation.





	While You Were Out

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on best_enemies ten years ago, for the second Table Prompt Challenge (all possible D/M combinations): https://best-enemies.livejournal.com/99160.html .

The Master pulled at his cuffs of his suit to neaten its lines, straightened his tie, and set out to explore the Doctor’s TARDIS. The man himself would undoubtedly escape from the trap the Master had set for him—eventually. No doubt the Doctor would then turn up for a verbal sparring match (and possibly a literal one, if the Master could manage to find swords and then contrive an excuse to conveniently leave them in the console room). For the moment, however, the Master intended to take advantage of the Doctor’s absence to enjoy more voyeuristic pleasures. 

By his calculations the Master had, at the very least, twenty-four hours of leisurely perusal ahead of him. It would take the Doctor considerable time to convince the local population that _he_ hadn’t stolen the sacred urns from their death-god’s dread temple. Said urns were currently both decorating the Master’s mantelpiece and awaiting use in an interesting summoning rite he’d read about in the Matrix archives he’d appropriated. Apparently the Jinchurral had accidentally worked out how to entrap Eternals. The resultant death tolls had convinced the Jinchurral that the mysterious beings were Lords of the Underworld: a fair approximation of their nature, the Master supposed, and about as good a working theory as anyone unfamiliar with life on other worlds was likely to arrive at. The Master had a notion to study the Eternals—to learn, if he could, the secrets of their longevity. 

But these terrible forces had been trapped in the urns for centuries now. They would keep, at least for another couple of days. 

While the Master whiled away the hours (far more comfortably than the Eternals), he browsed the Doctor’s library. When he got hungry, he took pleasure in composing a sandwich from the esoteric ingredients available in the Doctor’s kitchen. He browsed the Doctor’s wardrobe room like a man in a department store, chuckling to himself at the more sartorially offensive pieces and lingering over an old academic robe of Theta’s that had featured in a number of his fantasies during their school days. 

He busied himself in the Doctor’s labs for a good portion of the afternoon, appreciating, as he always did, the Doctor’s genius—for traces of the Doctor’s invention and industry littered the space (the Master tsked fondly at the accompanying mess). He played with the Doctor’s gadgets. Childishly gleeful, the Master turned on an unlabeled detector for something or other. He then gamely followed its insistent beeps until he understood what exactly it was supposed to detect. The device gave a joyful ‘ding!’ when brought into contact with dark matter seepages, and, quite satisfied, the Master pocketed it. It was elegantly designed, and might well be useful to him someday. 

Innately disciplined, he’d saved desert for the end of the meal. At the close of the day, the Master let the TARDIS take him to the Doctor’s bedroom. He examined it carefully, opening and shutting each drawer. He noted every detail. The wardrobe and bed smelled of the Doctor. The Master sat down on the mattress and smoothed his hand over the counterpane. He noted the indentation on the pillow. 

Cheerful in his possession, the Master strode back into the control room—and stopped short at the sight of a wholly unfamiliar woman smacking her fist into the console, muttering “come _on_ ” under her breath. She looked up at him, seeming equally taken aback. 

“Hello there,” she said in a brusque, pleasant voice. “What are you doing in my TARDIS? I mean _you_ you. Oh _damn,_ this isn’t another paradox is it?”

“I’m afraid it must be,” the Master paused, and tested, “Doctor?” 

She nodded. “Naturally. Well, never mind why you’re here. Come and take a look at these indicators. You were always more sensitive to this sort of thing.” She waved him over to join her at the console. “What’s this feel like to you?” 

He tried to correlate the readings before him with the particular light twist the paradox gave him in his gut, and offered “perhaps a re-crossing of a timeline that diverged far into my future, relatively recently in your past?”

“Yes.” The Doctor nodded, all drawled authority (rather reminding him of her current incarnation). “Of course there’s any number of things it _might_ be, but I suspect you’re right.” 

The Master made a slight ‘if you’ll permit me’ gesture, and the Doctor obligingly stepped back and let him access the panel. 

“You should be able to fall back into your own timeline and parallel TARDIS relatively easily, if you,” he winced, unable to bring himself to say it, “work along these lines.” He waved his hand at the displayl. “It’s a matter of a simple reset.”

The Doctor looked at his settings. “You mean I’ll have to reverse the polarity of the neutron flow?” she asked, amused.

The Master grit his teeth. “Just so, Doctor.” 

“Thank you.” She regarded the back of his neck. “You know I’d forgotten how handsome you were in this incarnation.”

Unable to quite process the Doctor blatantly hitting on him, the Master turned his head, looking over his shoulder at her.

“Excuse me?” he asked, certain she must have meant something entirely different. It would hardly be the first time wishful thinking had driven him to misconstrue an innocent comment of the Doctor’s as a chat-up line. 

She clapped a hand on his shoulder with chummy, good-natured forcefulness. Then she started rubbing his shoulder blade in slow circles, in a manner that was significantly less platonic. 

“Doctor,” he cleared his throat, “I—”

She was standing close behind him. The distance had seemed casual, but it was suddenly poignant. The scant inches separating them were pregnant with the possibility of touch. She lay a hand across his stomach, coaxing him back against her. “Just the sound of your voice used to make me half-hard.” 

The Master swallowed as the Doctor trailed her left hand up the length of his tie to play with the knot. She tightened and loosened the plump curl of silk with her thumb and index finger. 

“I’m with you now, you know,” she said. Her tone was conversational, but she was clearly gauging his reaction, and didn’t mind if he knew it. “Or rather, with my version of you.”

“Are you really?” The Master kept his voice light, amused, and moved his neck a barely perceptible fraction of an inch. He let out a gratified hiss of breath when she took advantage of the opening and laid her lips against the skin.

“Mm.” The syllable buzzed against the bone. “How cross do you think you’ll be when you find out I’ve slept around behind your back?” His own back was currently pressed against the Doctor’s breasts.

“Very, I imagine.” He was dazed by the sudden turn of his luck. She bit down, not breaking the skin, but with intent. The Master’s pulse jerked unsteadily between her teeth.

“Good,” she laughed. “I do like your temper.”

***

He should have known that sleeping with the Doctor wouldn’t be the idyllic consummation he’d imagined in his more sanguine moments—that it’d be as much of a struggle as anything else between them. But all in all, the Master thought as she managed to flip and pin him, he was doing rather well. 

She’d expressed an inclination to be on top. The Master had said that was very interesting, but he didn’t particularly care what she wanted: it has his first time with her and he was topping. The Doctor had narrowed her eyes and accused him of sexism. After a short struggle she’d managed to force his wrists together above his head and straddle him. She’d slipped down on him in a single drop that had her gasping and him making an embarrassing strangled noise. (In fact he’d had no objection to her suggestion in the first place, but strategically baiting her had played out even better than he could have hoped for.) 

This Doctor had, he noted, large, pale breasts. The last time he’d slept with a woman he’d been seducing a queen to gain access to the power she could provide him. While the Master admitted she’d been very attractive, he’d been somewhat preoccupied with the knowledge that he had the Doctor locked up in a cell just downstairs. The very next morning, he’d have the Doctor on a chain at the foot of his throne. His personal pet. He could wrap the links around his hand and pull the Doctor to him, and he need never relinquish what he’d won. His peak had been provoked at least as much by the giddy idea of that power as by the woman in bed with him. 

Now he toyed with the Doctor’s somehow infinitely more interesting presentation of the same anatomical features with fascination. He ran a palm down her back as she rose and fell, letting it rest on her bottom.

“You’re fixated on that,” the Doctor snorted. “Even my you. I imagine it’s stored up sexual frustration from all the lifetimes I was male and wouldn’t let you near me. You’ve managed to cathect my arse out of all proportion.”

The Master smiled at her, tipping his head up, leaving his hand where it was. “Indulge me.”

She laughed. “I always do.” 

***

The Doctor stood in the console room once again. She’d dressed, and even managed to arrange her hair into something nearly presentable. Her earlier self’s bedroom, in contrast, had been left rather a disaster—but right now the Master was more preoccupied with her purposeful ambling, and the decisive way in which she was priming switches. She looked seconds from raising her head and declaring that it was time for her to be going.

The Master stood in the doorway, watching her move. Here was a version of the Doctor that was _finally_ content to let him tie her up and lick her for hours on end! She couldn’t just _leave!_

The Doctor glanced up at him. She took in the tight resolution in his jaw and the desperate expression in his eyes.

“Master,” the Doctor’s nose crinkled with suspicion, “that’s a taser you’re holding behind your back, isn’t it?” 

In fact it was a rather more sophisticated instrument of his own design: a sort of charged billy club, with a handle that vibrated and snapped with a dangerous electric current at the flick of a switch—but yes, she’d grasped the basic concept. At the Master’s guilty look, the Doctor sighed and stuck out her hand with all the patronizing expectation of a mother making her six-year-old give back the scissors he’d been running around with. 

“Come on, let’s have it.”

As petulant as any six-year-old, the Master shook his head and attempted to hold onto his toy. “You’ll find leaving won’t be as easy as that, Doctor.”

“Oh come off it,” the Doctor scoffed. “You know damn well I’m from a divergence of your own timeline. Unless you’re prepared to build a bloody paradox machine—” (Now there was a thought—the Master shelved that one for later.) “then I _can’t_ stay here. Besides, I’m happily rattling around the universe, fighting monsters and saving planets with my best friend by my side. That’s you, in case you’re not following along. You— _my_ you—would be devastated if you thought I’d left you! Do you really want to ruin your own life like this?”

Resentful but unable to rationally disregard her point, the Master lowered the taser, letting it hang by his side. “I suppose this is farewell then.”

Taking pity, the Doctor stepped forward. She cupped his chin in her hand and ran her thumb over his cheekbone. “Well,” she amended, “perhaps not _just_ yet. I bet that taser of yours,” she slid her hand over his on the controls, “has multiple settings.” 

It did. Thus a surprisingly short while later, they found themselves back in the bedroom, with the Master running the slightly-charged wand over her nipples as she twisted under him. 

“That tickles,” the Doctor complained. The Master raised an eyebrow and ran it down her flank, until it settled on her pelvic bone. The vibrations jangled through her nerves. 

“Master,” she began in a warning tone, “I’m not sure you shouldn’t turn it down, if you plan to— _eep!_ ” The last came out as a strangled shriek, and she dug her candy-apple-red-painted nails into his forearm. He’d suddenly slipped it down along her slit and was casually grinding it against her with sharp twists of his wrist. 

“You were saying?”

“I, oh, _mmph!_ ”

“ _That’s_ right.” He dabbed a spot of lubricant from the jar on the beside table on the instrument and rested the tip of it on her clitoris, freeing up room for himself. The small shocks lapped against the Doctor. He was about to slide his cock into her in when he happened to glance back at the surface of the table, which was littered with objects he’d removed from his pockets while undressing. Inspiration struck. Grinning, the Master grabbed another device of his own invention, coated it too with the gel, and eased it into the Doctor’s squirming ass. He’d fucked her arse with his fingers earlier (the Doctor had been right—he’d spent too much time thinking about fucking a male Doctor not to be considerably attached to the acts associated with such a prospect), and so the object slid in easily. The Doctor, slightly surprised by but not at all unhappy with the additional entertainment, pushed down on it. 

Satisfied, the Master slid his cock into the Doctor’s cunt. The vibrations from his wand traveled through her, and he could feel the refracted tremors on top of the quiver-clench of her muscles around him. The Doctor breathed a thin, aching ‘ah.’ The Master bit his lip hard. 

“What are you using to—” the Doctor breathed as the Master slid in and out slowly, testing the angle.

“What was at hand.” He evaded the question, pushing in quickly and setting a brisk rhythm to distract the Doctor. It didn’t work. She groaned long-sufferingly, because she had a good guess as to what he’d lodged in her arse. 

“It had a flared base!” the Master protested, defending the rationality of his choice.

“You’re very resourceful,” she said sardonically, patting his back with her hand. “I hope you’ve managed to properly turn it _off_ , for your sake as much as mine. Even with your penchant for extreme sensation, you’re going to find it unpleasant if I suddenly become doll-sized while you’re in me.” 

He chuckled, fucking her very lesiurely so she had an opportunity to become accustomed to the layers of sensation and he could test his control of the various instruments at his disposal. “‘Extreme sensation’? What exotic experiences have you and I pursued, my dear?” 

The Doctor trailed her hand along his spine, stoking him like a cat. He found he rather enjoyed the attention. “Well, last week the environmental controls in my TARDIS were playing up—”

“How typical,” the Master taunted. She glared at him and continued. 

“And so I walked into the billiard room, and found it was snowing. There was almost three inches’ worth of accumulation—I called you in to see it. You lifted me up onto the pool table and undressed me, made me turn around and kneel on my hands and knees in the snow. You still had your gloves on, and you took a handful of snow and started rubbing it along my spine.” With her hand she mimicked the motion.

“Go on,” the Master breathed, fucking her with a tempo that matched the steady cadence of her voice. 

“I said it was too cold, and you said a Time Lord should be able to handle extremes in temperature quite easily.” 

“Very suddenly, you grabbed me by the hair and shoved me down in the snow. It was _freezing_ on my nipples, and you just _laughed_ at me. You said you loved nothing better than the sound of my voice when I screamed for you. A bit camp, darling, but in the moment I don’t really mind. You thrust into me—you hadn’t properly undressed. I could feel the buttons of your trousers scraping at my thighs. And you took another handful of snow, and used it on me,” she snaked her hand down, circumnavigating the taser and tracing the skin where her body was clenched around his, “like this. You kept on doing it, fucking me and letting it melt, and then when I was close you took a fresh handful and held it,” she pushed his fingers against her clit, alongside the wand, leaving him to support himself on his elbows, “here.” She swallowed. The Master was watching their fingers, and there was something in his entranced expression that made her feel simultaneously aroused and terribly fond. 

“And?” he asked, quietly, almost in awe of her, of her body, of the fact of her.

“I _screamed_ , and the cold made me _clench_ around you. You came so hard I thought you’d break.” The Doctor smiled up at him, and he bent to kiss her, almost chastely. 

***

They were exchanging a fourth ‘no, _really_ leaving now’ goodbye kiss when, disheveled, sweaty, panting and wide-eyed, with his elegant velvet coat in tatters, the other Doctor stumbled in, slammed the TARDIS door behind him and slumped down against it. The Master blinked in surprise—but when he considered it, he supposed it _had_ been about twenty-four hours since he’d framed the Doctor and left him to Certain Death. Time flies when you’re having sex.

The Doctor blinked at the tableaux. He took in the Master’s rumpled Nehru jacket and the disheveled, strange woman in shirt-sleeves. “What in Rassilon’s name have you been doing in my TARDIS?”

“Oh, hello Doctor,” the Master said off-handedly, turning back to help the Doctor ease her sore arms into her coat.

“Who’s _this_ — ” 

“I’m you, obviously.” the female Doctor said. “My word, I didn’t really have hair like that, did I?” Horrified, she circled around the back of her earlier incarnation. She anxiously patted down his wild curls. “It looks like it’s an independent creature trying to consume my head!” She leaned around him to glare at the Master. “Why didn’t you ever tell me how mad it had become? I know I had a lot on, but I could have spared a moment.”

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t have taken it in the spirit of constructive criticism, my dear,” the Master said, fondly looking on as she took a brush out of her pocket and hissed ‘hold still!’ at her squirming former self, trying to rake his hair into some semblance of order. 

The younger Doctor batted her off. Apparently not willing to hold out against the overwhelming evidence that the irritating woman was him, he started in on her reprehensible behavior. “Have you stumbled into a time loop?”

“No,” she raised an eyebrow, her tone dry. “I’m _supposed_ to be stuck bungling around my own past-TARDIS, trying to reassert my personal time line. I do it of a Sunday for kicks. Why?” 

The Doctor rested his hands on his hips. “I find your sarcasm inappropriate.”

“I find your hair ridiculous. Master, would you be a sport and start the process?”

“Certainly, my dear.”

At this point, the younger Doctor realised what had been niggling at him. It was nothing, naturally, but the Master had barely glanced at him since he’d arrived. At present the Master was flicking the TARDIS switches with the unobservant ease of a good typist, staring at the other Doctor. His expression could almost be described as a sort of _leer_ . She was no use, smiling back at him incorrigibly. He’d never been _blanked_ by the Master before, and it was unexpectedly cutting. The Doctor didn’t like to think of himself as vain, but he was accustomed to a certain level of attention from the Master, and its sudden absence was more disconcerting than he would have thought possible. 

The Doctor cleared his throat to get some acknowledgement that this was _his_ TARDIS they were in, and that frankly if the Master was going to have a debauched evening with anyone on board, it should damn well be him. 

“Master—” he raised his voice, intending to tell the man off for:

1\. leaving him at the mercy of the vicious Jinchurral clergymen—he’d had to lead a whole revolution against the Bishop to earn his freedom, and even then the new Democratic People’s Republic of Jinchurru had chased him out as a bourgeois counter-revolutionary for wearing a shirt with ruffles,

2\. using the Doctor’s own TARDIS as a cruising spot for vulnerable dimension-stranded versions of himself, and

3\. whatever else came to mind.

“Not now, Doctor.” The Master waved a hand in the Doctor’s general direction, not bothering to look at him. “These calculations are very delicate.”

The Doctor gaped at him. This wasn’t how it _went_! This wasn’t _cricket_!

“There you are,” the Master said in a positively syrupy tone as he finished. He turned to the older Doctor, who let herself be pulled into a last embrace. The Doctor glared at her, concluding that in the future he became some sort of waistcoated space tart. “Au revoir, my dear,” the Master said with a sigh.

She flickered out, back to wherever she’d come from. The Master turned around with an entirely self-satisfied look, went back to the console and powered it down.

“You do know your recollection of your little conquest is going to fade,” the Doctor sniped peevishly, glaring at the Master. That was something, at least: one’s Rassilon Imprimatur tended to suppress memories of temporal snarls such as this for one’s own protection. 

Finally deigning to notice him, the Master draped his arms over the console and grinned. “Not for several more hours, Doctor. Besides, I’m sure to recall it faintly as long as the marks last. And you were,” he crooked an eyebrow at the Doctor, “ _very_ thorough.” He examined the nails of his right hand, and the Doctor couldn’t help but intuit that his future counterpart bore bright red rakes of their making. 

“I don’t want to hear it,” the Doctor snarled. “I’ve had a wretched night, and given your lack of consideration I probably can’t even sleep it off in my own bed. I just want a shower, sleep, and for you to be gone when I wake up, out riding off your post-paradox hangover somewhere I can’t hear you moan about the headache.” He marched off into his TARDIS in search of a bathroom.

“I think you _do_ want to hear it, actually.” The Master trailed after him, indefatigable. “In fact I’ve a suspicion you’d like to hear me say—why, almost anything!”

The hairs on the back of the Doctor’s neck rose. Surely she wouldn’t have told the Master about his embarrassing predilection for the Master’s voice? _Surely_.

“You know, you told me some extremely interesting things this morning, Doctor—” 

Oh he _hated_ himself. 


End file.
